"Judith," said he, endeavoring to pierce with his keen eyes the dusk that enshrouded her, "you have not told me all. How came he to have a play of your father's in his possession?"
"Now," said she, with a quick anger, "that is ill done of Prudence! No one but Prudence knew; and for so harmless a secret—and that all over and gone, moreover—and the young man himself away, I know not where—nay, by my life! I had not thought that Prudence would serve me so. And to what end? Why, good sir, I myself lent the young man the sheets of my father's writing—they were the sheets that were thrown aside—and I got each and all of them safely back, and replaced them. Prudence knew what led me to lend him my father's play; and where was the harm of it? I thought not that she would go and make trouble out of so small a thing."
By this time the good parson had come to see pretty clearly how matters stood—what with Prudence's explanations and Judith's present confessions; and he made no doubt that this stranger—whether from idleness, or for amusement, or with some more sinister purpose, he had no means of knowing—had copied the play when he had taken the sheets home with him to the farm; while as to the appearance in London of the copy so taken, it was sufficiently obvious that Judith was in complete ignorance, and could afford no information whatever. So that now the first part of his mission was accomplished. He asked her a few more questions, and easily discovered that she knew nothing whatever about the young man's position in life, or whether he had gone straight from the farm to London, or whether he was in London now. As to his being in possession, or having been in possession, of a copy of her father's play, it was abundantly evident that she had never dreamed of any such thing.
And now he came to the more personal part of his mission, that was for him much more serious.
"Judith," said he, "'tis not like you should know what sad and grievous consequences may spring from errors apparently small. How should you? You will take no heed or caution. The advice of those who would be nearest and dearest to you is of no account with you. You will go your own way—as if one of your years and experience could know the pitfalls that lie in a young maiden's path. The whole of life is but a jest to you—a tale without meaning—something to pass the hour withal. And think you that such blindness and wilfulness bring no penalty? Nay, sooner or later the hour strikes; you look back and see what you have done—and the offers of safe guidance that you have neglected or thrust aside."
"I pray you, sir, what is it now?" she said, indifferently (and with a distinct wish that he would go away and release her, and let her get out into the light again). "Methought I had filled up the measure of my iniquities."
"Thus it is—thus it will be always," said he, with a kind of hopelessness, "so long as you harden your heart and have no thought but for the vanities of the moment." And then he addressed her more pointedly. "But even now methinks I can tell you what will startle you out of your moral sloth, which is an offence in the eyes of the Lord, as it is a cause for pity and almost despair to all who know you. It was a light matter, you think, that you should hold this secret commerce with a stranger; careless of the respect due to your father's house; careless of the opinion and the anxious wishes of your friends; careless, even, of your good name——"
"My good name?" said she, quickly and sharply. "I pray you, sir, have heed what you say."
"Have heed to what I have to tell you, Judith," said he, sternly. "Ay, and take warning by it. Think you that I have pleasure in being the bearer of evil tidings?"
"But what now, sir? What now? Heaven's mercy on us, let us get to the end of the dreadful deeds I have done!" she exclaimed, with some anger and impatience.